


Blood Moon Mania

by riteslut



Series: Blood Moon Mania [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha/Omega, Angst, Depression, Divination, Dreams, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Knotting, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Minor Character Death, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Scenting, Self-Hatred, Sexual Content, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-14 20:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21021698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riteslut/pseuds/riteslut
Summary: "A condition of mania used to describe sexually receptive females influenced by the desire to reproduce. Symptoms include changes in a witches’ scent, hyperactive senses, high body temperature, altered behavior, rapid breathing, heart palpitations. During the height of Frenzy a witch may release pheromones as ovulation occurs. These pheromones are known to cause aggression and altered mental states akin to madness."Hermione never was one for Divination. Unveiling the future through dreams? Tea leaves? How the stars sit in the sky? Seems woolly.





	1. Part One

The sun was enchanting. Warm and all-knowing. Hermione drops her head back, eyes closed, face up towards the sky. Streaks of sunlight bleed through the patchy September clouds. 

This time last year she was soggy. Fleeing across the countryside with Harry, lugging their wet canvas tent through muddy banks and sopping fields. Remembering the incessant pelting of rain on the roof, how she strained to hear past the pattering, constantly on edge for what might be lurking past the sound. 

She shudders at the thought, opens her eyes. 

This school year would be different. No dread looming overhead.

She fastens the parchment scrolls to the school owls. Letters to Ron and Harry, and her parents, respectively. The boys did not share Hermione's enthusiasm for returning to school. Instead, they went to join Kingsley Shacklebolt in restoring peace. While the war may have ended with Voldemort's death, the crimes committed in his name by the living would not soon be forgotten. 

And while she is hesitant to admit it, without Harry and Ron, she would be able to study for her NEWTs without distraction. Not that she wouldn't miss them dearly, but it was no secret that they were not as keen at actively avoiding mischief and hijinks. It followed the trio like their own shadows. But not this year. This year would be different. 

\-- --

Hermione sits at the Gryffindor table for eight minutes. She has a slice of buttered toast with jam and a glass of orange juice before leaving the Great Hall. After nearly five years of curious stares and hushed whispers, one might think Hermione would be more accustomed to the attention. 

It is just as unwanted and tiresome as ever. 

She heads to the library in lieu of dining with her house. She’s distracted in thought while she mentally categorizes the day’s priorities. Wednesdays mean Ancient Runes at half past ten, then double Potions after lunch. Her copy of Advanced Rune Translation has already been read through multiple times since purchasing it the just past summer. She would like to properly transcribe the notes she’s left in the margins of the textbook and run them through the Spellman's Syllabary --

The smell is what breaks her concentration. It’s refreshing against the library mustiness.

Just as quickly as she’s found it, it’s gone, and she finds herself wishing for another whiff. 

Something sharp. Lemongrass? Mint? And there’s an earthy quality she can’t quite place. Sage? It’s so familiar yet just out of reach.

She looks around, unsure of what to even be searching for. Empty. Most students are still having breakfast anyways, she might be one of the first here.

Turning on her heel, she shrugs and continues down the library corridor, heading towards her tried and true study spot.

\-- --

_ The moon is massive in the sky, a deep burnished red. It casts little light, the river shimmers faintly, reflecting the smoky amber hue. Against the bank, dense cattails and grass thickets. She’s knee-deep in a briar patch. Stuck. She pulls at the vines, her legs raw and fiery as the thorns rip and snag at her skin. Opaque droplets start to bead and drip down her calves, she tries not to move too suddenly. She looks across the water, spots another form. Dark and undefined, back towards her. It grows, standing to its full height. Massive. Hermione feels hot. Sweating. Her stomach churns, her chest tightening. Her fingers clench and unclench. She can’t breathe. She can’t breathe and she’s going to die. _

She awakes. Before sunrise.

The aftermath of the war has shown itself in ways Hermione would never have imagined. Like a slap in the face, rude and unrelenting realities making themselves known. Hermione has resided in the top dorm of the Gryffindor girls tower since year one. Her bed toward the west side of the tower -- facing the days’ setting sun. Some evenings when she made it upstairs before the other two girls, she’d sit by the window watching the last sliver of light pass behind the horizon, stars slowly creeping into view. Lavender Brown took the bed closest to the door, Parvati Patil had the bed towards the east window. On days Parvati was feeling particularly chipper, she’d draw back the curtains, much to the chagrin of Lavender, and bathe the room in it’s fresh morning light. Hermione never minded. 

This year she dorms alone. She tries not to think about the death of her fellow housemates. Tries not to wonder if Padma regrets not withdrawing from school with Parvati, like their parents wanted them to. Or if Mr. and Mrs. Brown loathe Fenrir Greyback as much as Hermione does. Doesn't wonder if not being assigned roommates was a neglected oversight from the Head of House, or if they assumed she'd prefer to be alone.

Many have treated her like that since her return to Hogwarts. Like she has some sort of contagious Hex over her, putting eons of distance between. As if she was anymore fragile, as if she’d snap at any off-remark or unprecedented comment. 

Hermione is still, in bed for another hour, eyes closed, willing herself to fall back asleep. 

She doesn't.

Never one for Divination, the unusual nightmare does not carry any more significance than being just that -- an unusual nightmare. Realizing she will not be getting anymore sleep tonight she sits upright, clutches her throbbing head. She notices she is damp with sweat, as is her pillow. Hermione admits this is an unusual reaction, but nonetheless gets up to open the window. The autumn breeze cuts through the room immediately. 

Regardless, it was _ Harry _ to have prophetic dreams, _ not Hermione _. 

Monday morning, the mail arrives with a flurry of owls. Hermione receives news from Harry and Ron. They are in the midst of travel preparations after catching rumors that Antonin Dolohov is trekking through a mountain range in France. She invited them to come to Hogsmeade for the weekend, she hasn’t seen them since school started. Ron suggests Hermione visit The Burrow for Christmas holiday, instead of seeing her parents. She doesn’t write a response. There’s nearly a month until Christmas and Hermione wants to put her energy towards finalizing her assignments for the end of term. 

She shoves the letter into her bag, getting up to retreat to the library before Charms. No breakfast today. Whether it was the begrudging 4am start, or maybe some illness going around, she doesn’t know. But her stomach feels knotted and her appetite inexistent.

Hermione has forgotten about that one particular Wednesday however many weeks ago, where some phantom smell caught her in the hall. Forgotten about it until it happens again. Stronger this time. Yet, still as hard to determine, so many different notes. Daisies? Tea tree? And there’s a sheer muskiness, like black pepper or pine.

The main library corridor is still. Looking down the aisles closest to her, to see they are empty and pristine, she turns around to face the way she came. 

Draco Malfoy stands tall. Staring at her.

It is this exact moment that she discovered she has yet to come to terms with how she feels about Draco. About his role during and after the war, about his father avoiding Azkaban by the skin of his teeth, about Draco’s return to Hogwarts. Malfoy stares wordlessly as well, perhaps just as uncertain. While Hermione runs scenarios through her head, contemplating what she might say and what she should say and how he might respond, how he could respond -- Malfoy turns on his heel and leaves the library. 

She feels a sharp pain in her belly. Reminiscent of regret. Or maybe pity. 

Against her better judgement and driven by some unidentifiable reason, she follows the path towards the doors. Hermione takes deep breaths, suddenly desperate, hopeful it will linger behind him. The odor dissipates before she can reach.

\-- --

Hermione does not consider going to the Great Hall for lunch. Instead, heads immediately outside. Over the course of Ancient Runes she began to fever. Her head started to throb, her clothes suddenly feeling itchy and tight over her flushed skin.

It was snowing all evening, but no longer. The courtyard has been trampled, various paths pressed into the white powder. They intersect and divert wildly, surely hundreds of footprints from begrudging students dragging their way to class. The leftover evidence that this area, once populated, now entirely empty save Hermione.

The air is biting, yet it feels invigorating. The wind cuts through her winter cloak and freezes against the dampness of her skin. She realizes how truly sweaty she is. A foul feeling creeps over her entire being, frightened at what is happening to her body, a sudden sense of impending doom. The anxiety that there is no Ron, no Harry, nobody to help. She all but runs to the hospital wing.

Madam Pomfrey says it’s Black Cat Flu and instructs Hermione to return each morning to take a Pepperup Potion. She’s given a Draught of Peace to take immediately, and another to take before bed. While walking from the infirmary to the dungeons for Potions, she licks her lips, still tasting the draught on her breath. It’s minty and floral. While she may feel calmer, she isn’t sure she feels better. Her torso’s tight, her skin clammy. The knot in her stomach disappeared, though she could swear it’s been replaced by an ache between her thighs. 

Hermione is one of the last few to enter the dungeons before class starts. She pretends not to notice those who turn to look at her as she grabs a seat at the last empty desk. Advanced Potions is a small class, just over a dozen students. Seven tables seating two spread out among the rectangular room, adjacent to Professor Slughorn’s desk which sits the farthest from the door. She unpacks her bag intently. Hermione was hoping the usually cold dungeon would be a relief but she feels no temperature change.

Her eyes dart up accidentally, Theodore Nott is staring directly at her. Unrelenting. Pressure grows exponentially in her chest.

Professor Slughorn strides into the classroom, bids everyone a 'good afternoon'. The class is quickly brought to a silence and turns to face forward. Slughorn sweeps his wand through the air, a piece of chalk flies up and starts hashing out writing against the chalkboard.

  
_Polyjuice Potion _  
_Page 94 _

The class moves to open their Advanced Potion-Making books, Slughorn takes his seat at the desk silently. It seems today will be a study period. 

Just as the class seems to settle they all turn once more to see Draco Malfoy walk in. Slughorn does not remark on the lateness. Slytherin camaraderie. He drops into the last empty seat beside Hermione. She freezes. Draco’s movements are stiff as he retrieves his textbook. The smell hits her like a weight. It sits in the air prominently, encapsulating her. She tries to be inconspicuous as she revels in the cloud. Her breath hitches in her throat, her lungs heaving against her ribs. Surely he can hear her heartbeat; it thuds against her own ears like a drum, reverberating in her skull. Her eyes shoot over to look at him. He’s peering down, staring at the open book. His lips are pressed together firmly in a tight line, eyes glazed.

An urge to scoot closer crawls over her. She breathes with intention. The smell is crisp and clean. Blood surges forcefully through her body, about to burst out of her skin. 

And then she feels it. The unmistakable wetness between her legs. Her pelvis clenches, practically cramping from tension. Draco clears his throat. His eyes flick up and Hermione’s follow. Theo Nott has again turned his head to stare in their direction. As has neighboring Blaise Zabini and another 7th year Hufflepuff across the room. They share the same look. Dark eyes, hard features.

Hermione can’t stay here. It’s all too much. The heat of her skin, the ache between her legs; she’s unable to catch her breath. The smell has become intoxicating, drowning her from the inside out. Her vision wavers, unconsciousness on the verge.

Her hand shoots up but it doesn’t look or feel like hers. Slughorn looks surprised.

“Miss Granger?”

“May I be excused to visit Madam Pomfrey?” She doesn’t hear his response, she’s already packing her bag and heading towards the exit. 

Sprinting up the stairs, her heart slams inside her ribcage, clawing for escape. She throws the courtyard doors open and collapses face-first onto the snowy field. 

\-- -- 

_ “Pine fresh.” _

The last time Hermione visited the prefects’ bathroom was sixth year. When she _ actually was _ a prefect. The baths were always piping hot, filled with marvelous swirling bubbles and thick creamy bath foam. She’d light candles and perfumed oil clouds would waft through the air. 

Tonight, the exclusive bathroom is dim. The massive golden chandelier overhead is not lit. Moonlight pours in through the large stained glass windows, bounces off the endless white marble. 

Hermione feverishly sidles across the room, delirious from exhaustion. She crumbles to the floor, strips off every piece of soaked clothing. Her hair is matted to her face with sweat, her skin glowing red from within. Reaching for the edge of the pool-like tub, she grasps at the faucet handles. The sapphire-adorned taps spew frigid water -- the air in the bathroom starts to creep, colder and colder. Thunderous splashing echos off the stone walls.

She lays down fully, body pressed into tile. Sticky skin smeared across the smooth hardness. Her pelvis feels ready to shatter, every inch of burning skin screaming with need. Hermione reaches into the pile of discarded clothes, pulls out her wand, half-heartedly aims it towards the window. She can't wait for the bath, she's still too hot.

_ “Evanesco.” _

The mermaid's portrait flickers, the golden-hued glass vanishes, a sudden gust of midnight air fills the bathroom. A light dusting of snow is carried in on the wind. Fine, powdery flakes fall on her skin, melting instantaneously against her blistering flesh. 

When the pool was finished filling Hermione ungracefully rolled in, limbs trailing behind her.

Plunging deeper and deeper into the water, her sweltering was immediately extinguished. Instead replaced with sudden shock and panic. Her nerves alight with sensation, she resurfaces panting, greedy for breath. As if she was asleep, now awoken by the frigidity. Entire body tingling with excitement, the agony has morphed from scalding to shuddering. 

Looking around the bathroom, she scans the area with an incredible sense of alertness. Her exhaled breath condenses in the chilly air, tiny cloud plumes surround her head. Icicles start forming around the golden bath taps, hanging off the mouth. 

Hermione weakly swims to the edge, struggles to lift herself out. She paws pathetically at her wand, flicking her wrist across the room. The water halts, the bath stopper pulled, the window replaced. The blonde mermaid residing in the stained glass shoots Hermain a look of disdain as she flickers back to existence. The bath drains almost as quickly as it fills. 

Wishing she brought dry clothes, but knowing in her previous state it was the furthest thing on her mind, she wraps her wet robes around her shoulders. Bringing her knees up to her chin, she sits on the snow-covered marble in dismay. 

_ “Ooh, she really didn’t like that.” _

Hermione looks up. 

Moaning Myrtle is gesturing towards the mermaid on the wall. 

“M-Myrtle.” Hermione mutters through chattering teeth. 

“Crass, don’t you think?” Myrtle zips around the bathroom, inspecting the ice-covered taps and snow layering the floor, “To not see _ me _ in ages, but visit _ her_!” 

Hermione says nothing, shivers quietly. 

“Do any other boys know about your Frenzy?” Myrtle floats gently towards Hermione, eying her curiously. 

“F-fren-frenzy?” Hermione pushes frozen wet hair out of her face, looks up. 

“And to think you used to be the smart one!” Myrtle throws her head back with a giggle, “If I counted correctly, there’s a lunar eclipse on Saturday!” 

The pool finishes draining with a gurgle, Myrtle flies a lap around the room before diving towards the empty tub.

“And I’ve been counting for ages and ages and ages, so surely I’m right.” Myrtle chirps behind her as she slips down the drain, disappearing into the pipes. 

\-- --

_ Ostros Frenzy : _ _ A condition of mania used to describe sexually receptive females influenced by the desire to reproduce. Similar to reproductive system sharing mammals, it presents in witches in tandem to lunar cycle phases. Symptoms include changes in a witches’ scent, hyperactive senses, high body temperature, altered cognition behavior, nausea, flushed skin, rapid breathing, heart palpitations, headache. During the height of Frenzy a witch may release pheromones as ovulation occurs. These pheromones are known to cause aggression and altered mental states akin to madness. Symptoms can be lessened or negated by sexual activity, reducing ambient temperature, calming draughts, applying essence of valerian root to the inflicted areas. _

Hermione stares blankly at the book. She's been researching all morning, searching for an explanation. Sifting through stacks of leather bound textbooks, healer's journals, collections of magical remedies. Yet all she's able to find is this blurb of text, taking up no more than a quarter of the page, in _Uncommon Magical Ailments and Afflictions. _

She hesitantly admits it made sense. The overheating, headaches, chest pain.

  
  
_ In tandem to lunar cycle phases. _

While pulling materials off the library shelves, she stumbled across copies of _Omens and Oracles,_ and _Spiritual Selenography: Looking At and Past the Moon. _She brought them back to her table in desperation but never actually considered she'd have to read them. 

Her head throbs. Since visiting the prefects’ bathroom Wednesday night her symptoms have quelled, but not entirely vanished. Friday the students would leave for Christmas holiday. She begins to truly fear this sickness, whatever it is. If the worst has yet to come, Hermione can’t imagine what the eclipse would bring. Putting her head in her palms, elbows propped on the surface of the table. She sits, gathering her thoughts, counting her breaths. Almost getting acclimated to the tightness in her chest. The dewy film covering her body. 

And there it was. 

_That smell._

Hermione flings her head up, red-flushed face looking into Draco Malfoy’s. He places his palms firmly onto the tabletop, his tall figure leaned over towards her. He looks weary. No tie, no robes. His white blonde hair messy and unkempt. A sickly purple smudged under his eyes, his face thin -- almost translucent with pallor. The top two buttons on his white Oxford are undone, revealing supple pale skin stretched taut over sharp collarbones. The shirt is disheveled, sleeves crumbled up to his elbows revealing long ashen arms. She avoids looking at the Dark Mark on his inner forearm.

“Fuck.” Malfoy murmurs, dropping his shoulders, eyes glossy, inches away from her face.

She breathes deeply and makes no effort to hide it. That delectable, exhilarating smell. It fills her chest and stirs up a desire from deep within her abdomen. 

“Granger.”

He has the same look he had in Potions. Distant eyes. Rigid features. Like he’s in pain. They stare wordlessly.

The surrealness of the situation is not lost on Hermione, regardless of the hammering headache. Draco Malfoy. A pariah. Discredited in the eyes of the now deceased Dark Lord, left to face the wrath of the world he tried to betray. 

Has he ever been this close before? Gone this long without throwing her blood status in her face? Has he grown more tolerant? Sincere? 

Since the manor, where she screamed under the Cruciatus curse. Where she pleaded Malfoy to look at her. To get Bellatrix to stop. But she knew he couldn’t. Hermione doesn’t blame Malfoy. She never has. Years of sneering and prejudice to hide the misfortune of an allegiance chose even before his birth. 

An ache pulses through her belly. 

“Do you know about this?” She chokes out.

“Theo says it happened to his mother,” Draco finally admits, “She went into a Frenzy during his first year. Didn’t know what it was then.” 

"What happened to her?” 

“He thinks his dad was too old, couldn’t take care of her. Says she went mad.” Draco says hesitantly. 

“Take care of her how?” Hermione asks.

Her ribs feel on the verge of collapse.

Draco peels his hands off the table, taking a step back. He clears his throat, rubs the back of his neck furtively. He doesn’t say anything. The question hangs dryly in the air. Hermione feels her throat start to tighten. The now almost-sickeningly potent smell starts to make her dizzy. At that moment someone walks past the aisle. A Ravenclaw. He eyes the two of them strangely, but continues. Draco turns away and leaves without looking back at Hermione, following behind the Ravenclaw. 

She sits at the table in silent disbelief. Her stomach flopping back and forth.

It’s rain. He smells like rain. 

  
  



	2. Part Two

_ “Bloody well you did, you were right next to her!” _

Draco and Theodore sat in the Slytherin common room. The dungeon was mostly empty. He preferred it that way. Nobody tried to hide their inquisitive glances in the halls or during class anymore. Some looked at him with contempt, others with shame. 

Nearly everyone was packing to leave for Christmas. The usually looked-forward-to break left Draco apprehensive. The massive Malfoy Manor donning a false sense of holiday merriment, saccharine seasonal decor plastered over the cold mansion walls. The house hasn’t felt like home since Voldemort held his operations there. Like a sponge, the rooms still exuded the hatred and terror they absorbed during Death Eater meetings. 

Narcissa spent weeks using Scouring Charms and Mending Charms. But they could not remove contentment from the air. Could not undo the horrors committed. Especially the Drawing Room, the grandest room in the house, ornate with magnificent portraits and rare artifacts; now a seething reminder of their atrocities. Of Draco's apathy. His cowardice.

His mother would patrol the manor for hours, casting _Cave Inimicum, Protego Totalum, _or _Repello Inimicum_ \-- protective spells to keep out enemies, keep out the rest of the world.

“I smelled her and I was across the room!” Theodore insisted.

“So what did she smell like?” Draco feigned ignorance.

Draco knew. Honeysuckle. Vetiver. A luxurious amber warmth. It filled him like a drink, left him feeling sunkissed and glowing.

“I’ve no idea. Been thinking about it all day,” Theo sighed, throwing himself back into the leather settee in frustration, “Butterbeer, if I'm being honest.” 

A jolt hit Draco, his blood ran cold. 

“You’ve been thinking about her all day?” Draco couldn’t help but scoff.

If Theodore noticed the scorn, he wasn’t offended. He shifted his eyes back and forth nervously, clearing his throat. 

“This isn’t some Weasley perfume or Primping Charm. I think she’s sick. This happened to my mum.”

  
  
They were both eleven. The summer before they started schooling at Hogwarts. Draco invited Theodore over to play quidditch. He remembered how his mother and Mrs. Nott spoke in quick hushed tones in the parlor. Dobby the house elf brought Calming Draught after Calming Draught to soothe the nearly hysterical guest. The boys were oblivious at the time, but it dawned on Draco quarterway into the school year when Theodore was missing from classes. Then again when the Malfoys attended the funeral. The service was surrounded with extravagant floral arrangements, massive portraits of the departed, Purebloods and Slytherins dressed in their finest attire. Draco wondered why anyone would waste their time with such opulence. How could anyone care about grandeur when a poor boy has been doomed down a motherless path.

“In fifth year Professor Trelawney told me she saw my mother in her crystal ball! _‘The moon cast a shadow on her. It brought sweetness, then smoldering heat’_. I thought it was a crock until I remembered leaving her at King’s Cross my first year. 

“I’ll never forget it, the smell was unmistakable. Like she had a go with a garden. Roses and jasmine and lilies. And she was covered in sweat, like she was fevering. She had this mental look in her eyes. I thought maybe she was nervous about me leaving for school. After Trelawney’s stunt I wrote to the healers at St Mungo’s, asking about my mum’s death. They called it a Frenzy. Something to do with the moon. It drives witches absolutely mad.” Theodore was very composed as he spoke, almost apathetic even.

Draco had never heard about Theo’s mother’s death before. It wasn’t his place to ask. When Theo returned to school after his leave of absence Draco politely expressed sympathy -- which Theo solemnly accepted -- and the two never spoke of it again. 

“So, Granger’s going to go mad?” Malfoy mused. 

A sudden sneer stretched across Theodore, “Only if she can’t get a good rutting.”

Draco was taken aback, the crude response stunned him. 

“You’re having me on,” said Draco.

“I’m not! She’s like a bitch in heat, she needs a shag!” 

Theo had no hint of jest in his voice. His brows knitted together, now sitting upright in the settee. The words sank in Draco’s stomach like a rock, indigestible. 

\-- --

He couldn’t help himself. She didn’t show up for breakfast. She hardly ever did. 

Granted, he barely ate breakfast anymore either. Maybe he should just stop wasting his time at the Great Hall entirely, too. He can already hear his mother’s whinging when she sees how he’s slimmed down. Draco noticed it the other day, when he accidentally caught a glance of his reflection in a window of the Slytherin common room. The scummy lake-backed glass pane mirrored his lackluster scowl. Sleepless nights and skipped meals. His exhaustion manifesting around him like an aura. He could have stared into his own tired eyes for longer, until a fish passed by and broke his concentration.

He felt ashamed, looking for her like some sick puppy. Yet the need to do _ something_, carried his feet towards the library. 

Malfoy smelled her as soon as he walked in. The heavy wooden doors closed behind him, sealing him with the scent. Potency increasing with each step, he followed his nose towards her usual spot. 

Cedar. Blood orange. Golden and silky, like nectar. 

She was in the next aisle over. Unbeknownst to her, he hid around the corner -- flanked by the shelves. Thinking. Breathing. Surely, she wouldn’t want his help. Not only has he never once offered help, but in fact been the direct opposition for as long as they’ve been alive. 

Draco couldn't let things idly pass by him anymore. How many lives would have been spared if he took a stand? Resisted? Instead of having followed the darkness dutifully. Abided by an allegiance that he never remembered choosing. And during his moments of most strife and consternation -- it was those he opposed that offered him kindness and assistance.

Hermione was tucked between stacks of books. Parchment scattered the wooden tabletop. Her hair was mussed, her skin dewy. He leaned across the surface with determination. As if to present himself in no laughing matter. He had a proposition. Wanted to help.

She looked at him. Her eyes glimmered. She smelled like sweetgrass and honey.

He turned his head to look as someone passed. Draco thought his name was Marcus Belby, a Ravenclaw. Marcus didn't say anything as he walked by, but Draco saw the look on his face. Repulsed. As if Draco should be ashamed. How arrogant does somebody have to be to return to the school they were traitorous against. 

But Draco _is_ ashamed. Repulsed with himself. He doesn’t need a reminder. 

Any pseudo-confidence Draco may have been hanging onto drained from him quickly. He abandoned whatever harebrained intention he had and turned to leave the library. 

Damn Slytherin drive for preservation, stronger than any glimmering chance at bravery. 

The captivating smell dwindled as he headed for the exit. His stomach twisted with regret.

_ Coward. _

\-- --

He’s going to get a Howler. Maybe two. Maybe Narcissa and Lucius will show up at Hogwarts themselves, demanding he leave with them. Draco doesn’t know why he didn’t board the train home. He doesn’t know why he didn’t pack his trunk. It seemed he subconsciously had no intention of going back to the manor for the holiday.

It was almost midnight when he finally left his dorm. The common room dark and empty. He quietly padded down the hallway, regardless of the unlikelihood that he’d see anyone. Wrapping his cloak around him tightly, he traversed the cold hallways of the empty school. 

Has he always been so cold?

A steaming hot bath would surely warm him up. The prefects’ bathroom was just down the hall. 

His ears perked. 

Screaming. Or was it crying? 

“Pine fresh.” Draco said, stepping into the dark bathroom. 

The air was frigid, the pool in the center of the room filled with cold water. The smell in the room hit like a wave as it washed over him. He looked over at the crumpled figure on the ground. Hermione. She mumbled breathlessly, her eyes glazed over. Her chest heaved, her skin fiery red and slick with sweat. Clothes haphazardly strewn around the floor. 

“Granger?”

He crouched down beside her. The smell made him dizzy, his vision seemed like it was blurring. 

Cardamom. Citrus. Tender and creamy. 

His pulse raced. Heat building from his core, his stomach churned. Draco moved the damp hair out of her face, turned her cheek to face him. She practically purred under his touch.

“Granger, talk to me!”

Hermione’s eyes were just as foggy, but her hands moved to grab the collar of his robes. She languidly pulled herself up and threw her arms around his neck. Her skin was like fire against his. Hermione pulled him into a tight embrace as she dug her head into the crook of his neck and breathed deeply. Long, steady inhales. She muttered nonsense into his skin and pressed her nose against his flesh. Draco’s neck was alight, sparking under her hot breath. 

“Can you get dressed?” Draco pulled Hermione’s shoulders back and looked at her.

Her eyes did not meet his. She was looking only at his lips. A jolt ran through him. Suddenly Draco was choking on his own breath. His mind clouded, he trudged through his own thoughts trying to stay grounded. The air seemed to get thicker and thicker, suffocating him. 

“Help.” Hermione uttered. 

It was the first word he could understand. 

“I don’t know how!” Malfoy cried.

“Please.” Her voice hoarse.

Every vein in his body throbbed, suddenly overcome with intensity. He smashed his lips into hers, she moaned against his mouth. Draco placed both hands around her, flat on the small of her back. Hermione’s skin so hot against his, he thought she might burn him. 

He kissed her warily. Hermione wrapped her arms around his neck, closing every inch between them. Her torso pressed into him. Draco pulled her up to sit in his lap. Her chest was red, scalding hot. He was startled as Hermione started grinding back and forth against his pelvis. Draco didn’t realize he had gotten hard. She groaned loudly, throwing herself down with such force it sucked the breath out of him. 

As he went to pull her off she started lamenting.

“Wait!” Hermione sniveled, eyes watering. 

“We can’t-” Draco was interrupted when Hermione pulled his hand down to rest between her legs.

She was soaked. Wet heat pooled and dripped down her thighs, collecting on the front of his pants where she sat.

Draco could resist no longer. He pressed his lips against hers ravenously, Hermione accepted him eagerly. His hand moved to cradle her hot breast, her nipple stiffened to a peak. The other slid behind her, hand cupping her bottom. She moved her hips back and forth, her wet slit trying desperately to make contact through Draco’s pants. Draco groaned against her lips as the feeling shot through his spine. He pulled back and Hermione whimpered, burrowing her head into his neck. Taking off his cloak, he spread the black fabric across the marble floor before laying her down on her back. 

She whined, arching her back to try to reach him. He looked down at her body. Knotted hair. Eyes wet with tears threatening to fall. 

He couldn’t help but stare. Smooth, soft skin, flushed and sweaty. Her perky breasts ended in tight nipples, the crease between her legs glistened in the moonlight. A horrifying moment of clarity struck him. What would happen tomorrow? She’d be horrified that he took advantage of her. How could someone sink so low. Someone so vile and repulsive. Someone like Draco. 

And then Hermione arched her back and spread her legs before him. The smell made him see stars. He felt his blood boil as he jumped to bear his body on top of hers. Hermione wrapped her arms around his neck, determined not to let him escape again. Clinging, desperate for his touch. He groaned against her mouth while she ground her pelvis against his. 

Draco moved his fingers down to her opening. She was drenched. The folds pooled with her essence, his index finger slipped inside easily. Crying out, she threw her head back exposing her neck. He planted wet kisses along the base of her chin and down her throat. She tightened around his finger while he slipped a second in. 

“Please,” Hermione squirmed, writhing against him. 

Moving to undo his belt buckle, he continued nipping and at her neck, tracing his tongue against the sensitive skin. He pushed his pants below his hips, pulling himself out. He had never been so hard in his life. His cock engorged, precum dripping and dribbling down his shaft. 

Hesitantly, he aligned himself with her entrance. She twitched with anticipation.

“Listen,” Draco hissed through his teeth, “I just need to know-”

He shuddered as she bucked up to meet him, the head of his member disappeared inside. She was sweltering hot, velvety and tight. A loud sob crawled out of her, Draco choked on his breath. So tight. So wet. He thrust in further, she felt perfect, as if sculpted to fit him. His eyes rolled back into his head, he was in pure ecstasy. 

Slowly, he withdrew his length slightly before sinking back in again. Already on the verge of coming, Draco dazed with disbelief. Disbelief that someone could feel this good. Anything could feel this good. It felt like the sun was radiating from inside his body. He looked down at Hermione. Her eyes half-lidded, her mouth agape. Sweat beaded down her forehead. She looked more absent than ever. 

“Hermione?” 

“More,” She panted, “Please.”

Draco’s erection throbbed at her words. He plunged deep, his hips ground into hers. She gasped, Malfoy felt her clench as he withdrew and thrust again. Again and again, gaining in speed and voracity. Slamming his pelvis, he grabbed onto her waist and moved her body to meet his. He felt heat build at the base of his groin, his scrotum getting tighter. 

Cradling a breast in one hand, he kneaded the mound with his palm. His mouth on the other, he rolled the nipple between his teeth, flicking his tongue softly against it. A guttural whine left her throat. She thrashed against him. He drove into her recklessly, his fingers gripped onto her, digging into her flesh. He was so close. 

“Hermione, I have to pull out.” Draco breathed.

Hermione’s eyes shot open, she wrapped her legs around his waist. She was like a vise, every part of her latching on relentlessly, every inch of his length now buried inside. He couldn’t stop. He pounded harder, feeling his member grow, the skin suddenly too tight as he felt the base swell. Under him, Hermione thrashed and mewled.

“_Draco, please._”

His mouth in her name flooded him with electricity. His entire body shook as he came. Rivulets of pleasure cascading over him, he closed his eyes and dropped his head between her breasts. Breathing her in. Pumping erratically, he filled her with his seed, while Hermione’s eyes clenched shut. He felt himself coming for minutes, his loins ached with tension. She trembled once more, leaning her head back into the marble. 

He moved to withdraw himself but found he was still entrapped. His erection knotted inside her, keeping him in place. Draco was simpering as he held her, brimming with euphoric affection. He brushed the hair out of her face, tucked strands behind her ears. Kissing every spot he could reach from the crown of her head to her collarbones. He nuzzled his head against her temple.

_"I'm sorry, Hermione."_

She said nothing, eyes still closed. Her pulse calmed, as did Draco’s. He planted one last kiss below her ear and relished in that smell for a moment. He could feel the swelling ease as he pulled himself out, his and her fluids leaked down her thighs. Using a corner of his robes he wiped as much fluid as he could, careful not to further agitate the swollen folds.

"You're perfect. You're so beautiful and perfect and I'm sorry."

Moonlight poured in from the large window. The moon was massive, glowing with a red tinge. It faced right outside the stained glass -- as if peering in. 

Draco dragged a knuckle under her chin, down her neck. Concern grew over her stillness. 

“Hermione?” 

The silence of the bathroom was deafening. 

\-- --

Madam Pomfrey eyed him suspiciously, she didn’t believe him and he knows it. In the morning Hermione would tell of how she was violently ill, before Draco barged into the bathroom to assault her. 

He’d be expelled. They’d probably put his picture in The Daily Prophet.

_ “Ex-Death Eater Attacks War Hero.” _

His father would have yet another reason to be ashamed. His cretinous failure of a son. 

Returning to the Slytherin common room, he collapsed onto one of the leather sofas. He’s never felt so drained. As if every fiber of his being had been stretched to its limit and then released -- too worn out to snap back together. Trying to collect his thoughts, trying to understand how he lost control. It was like something had possessed him. He remembered how hard it was to breathe, how much trouble he had trying to rationalize the situation, trying to think straight. 

He thought about her body writhing against his. How she moaned and groaned. Her beautiful naked figure glistening, glowing in the dim light. 

How his name rolled off her lips. 

\-- --

Christmas morning he awoke to clamoring in the common room. His head throbbed as he sat up. He was absolutely starving. Going to fetch his cloak he was hit with the unmistakable scent of Hermione Granger. A twinge went through him. Pressing the fabric into his nose, he breathed deeply. 

The smell warmed him from the deepest pit of his stomach, stretching to his fingers and toes. He felt encompassed in sunshine. 

Donning it, he felt her wand still tucked into one of the pockets. He must have stuck it there when he carried her to the hospital wing and forgot to leave it with Madam Pomfrey.

Draco slipped through the common room, passing the handful of students giddy with Christmas joy. Ascending the dungeon stairs, he pushed aside the door and stepped into the entrance hall.

She was seated across the hall on the marble stairs, reading. Turning up to look, her face said nothing. No change in expression whatsoever. Hermione stood up, tucked the book under her arm as she approached him. He could feel his heart thump frantically. Maybe it was a good thing she didn’t have her wand.

_ Worthless! Filthy, abhorrent scum! I hope they sentence you to a Dementor’s Kiss! _

“Malfoy.” She stated without faltering.

“Granger.”

She maintained direct eye-contact. Damn Gryffindors, always so quick to sport that boldness. 

“I wanted to apologize for what happened in the prefects’ bathroom. I should have told someone instead of trying to deal with it myself. If you didn’t help me,” Hermione spoke quickly and pragmatically, “Well, Madam Pomfrey says a lot of things could have happened. I want to thank you.”

Draco stared. Hermione had a hard look on her face.

“You want to thank me.” Draco could feel the corner of his mouth twisting into a smile.

A blush crept across her cheeks, she looked down furtively.

“Madam Pomfrey says it was very lucky that you were there.” Hermione asserted.

“That I was there … to help you.” He smirked, she acted so businesslike.

  
  
Hermione turned red. It was reminiscent of how she looked during her Frenzy.

“_Yes! You helped! _” She barked, “Surely you’ll forgive yourself for having had to be intimate with someone like me!”

Draco knew where this was going. That wasn’t his intention. He grabbed her hands and held them gingerly. Looked at her, pleading for her to listen. 

“Granger. Do you think so little of me? To think my morality is so twisted and villainous? Surely, you can believe I’m trying to denounce that damn pure-blood nonsense. Surely, you can believe that I don’t want to hold onto such hatred anymore for Muggles and,” He wavered, “Half-bloods." 

Hermione looked like she was bracing herself but was silently pleased when she wasn't insulted. She looked down at their hands.

He didn’t let go. And neither did she.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading. This is my first story on AO3 (and to be honest, the first piece of writing I’ve finished in a while) so any and all feedback is appreciated. I'm taking a bit of an untraditional homebrew-esque approach to the Alpha/Omega, Heat, Knotting tropes. I liked the idea of it being a sickness or condition based in magic rather than a hierarchical system. Granted, a lot of it was drawn from the (completely real and scientific) estrous cycle and the Greek Oîstros derivation.
> 
> For the sake of trying something different and keeping me on my toes I played with a present-tense narration versus a past-tense, as well as a lot of time skips to keep things from droning -- hopefully it wasn’t at the cost of reading comprehension/enjoyment. 
> 
> Nonetheless, you sharing your time with my writing is valued so I want to thank you once again.


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